The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy L. Higley

  With Mariamme settled, Lydia returned downstairs to help Simon bring in the contents of the wagon, which would be transferred to their new transportation in the early morning.

  They moved slowly, both of them. In spite of the cold and the late hour and the wearisome trip, to finish the task meant to say good-bye.

  Too soon the wagon was empty, its stores piled in the front room of the inn. Lydia placed her own belongings in the corner. She would take them upstairs when she joined Mariamme.

  When Simon was gone.

  He stood near the door and she near the fire. The innkeeper had disappeared, probably to bed herself as the hour was late.

  Lydia raised her hands to the fire’s warmth, then rubbed her palms together. Would she ever be warm again?

  She could think of nothing to say. What cool words would effect separation between them, without useless emotion complicating the good-bye?

  “We should have asked the innkeeper for something warm to fill your stomach before you leave.” She looked toward the back room. “Perhaps I can—”

  “I am not hungry.”

  She did not look at him. Could not.

  The parting from David had seemed to mirror the good-bye she had given Caesarion all those years ago, heavy and suffocating. But this—this good-bye felt more like her parting from Samuel—a ripping away that was like death.

  But would they not return, someday? If Herod lived, Mariamme would be safe from the executioner, but her hasty flight would give Herod another reason to destroy her. No, it would not be safe for Mariamme until Herod was dead and a new king, who cared nothing for Mariamme, had taken the throne.

  Lydia braced her forehead against the mantel above the fire. What king would that be? Doris’s young son? If Mariamme gave birth to a boy, her boy would forever be seen as a threat.

  But Lydia had the Chakkiym to find. How could she remain outside Jerusalem forever?

  “You will be back.”

  Had Simon heard her thoughts?

  She did not turn but felt him cross the room to stand behind her.

  The warmth of his hand pressed against her lower back. An intimate gesture, and it should have quickened her pulse, but she felt it as if from a distance, happening to someone else.

  Simon turned her to himself, took her cold hands in his own, and lifted them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. Above their clasped hands, his dark eyes were trained on hers.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she looked away. Why did he make this more difficult? Was it not better to pretend there was nothing between them, nothing to mourn when it was gone?

  For the thousandth time, she chastised herself. Foolish girl, for letting it come to this.

  “Lydia.”

  She pulled her hands to her sides, turned back to the fire that did nothing to melt the ice in her heart.

  “I will not leave like this, Lydia.”

  “Like what? What is there to say?” The terse words had an air of annoyance she had not intended. But perhaps it was for the best.

  Simon uttered a low growl of frustration and smacked both his hands against the blackened stone wall above the fire. “Like this! This cold parting fitting only for strangers who care nothing for each other!”

  Lydia dragged in a breath, shaky but deep. “I . . . I am sorry, Simon. It is all I have.”

  “Truly?” He whirled on her, circled her waist with a strong arm, and pulled her to him.

  The heat of his chest against her own, the feel of his breath against her hair—it burned away her resolve like the sun against the morning fog. But to yield was to feel the separation, and she could not risk the wounding.

  His other arm was around her now, his lips pressed to her ear. “Lydia, there are things I must say—”

  “Ly—di—a!”

  The screech broke them apart like an icy drenching.

  She lifted her eyes to the wood beams above them, then shot a glance toward the steps.

  “Lydia, come quickly!”

  Simon was on her heels as they raced up the narrow wood stairs to the room on the second level.

  Mariamme stood in the center of the room, her face even paler than it had been during their journey and the whites of her eyes wide with terror.

  Even in the dim light of the tiny terra-cotta oil lamp, the irregular circle of wetness on the floorboards at the queen’s feet told Lydia all she needed to know.

  Mariamme’s labor had begun.

  Twenty-Seven

  Fetch the innkeeper, Simon.”

  Lydia crossed the room on sure feet and guided Mariamme to a hard chair. The queen’s arms trembled under her touch.

  “Sshh, my lady. All will be well. Have no fear.”

  The queen blinked once, twice—slowly, as if she had lost her memory of where they were. “My mother, Lydia. I need my mother.”

  And Alexandra should be here. But that was not to be.

  “We are here for you, my lady. You will have all the help you need.”

  The innkeeper, Hannah, already disheveled from her bed, bustled into the room, tongue clucking. “I knew she had the birthing look about her when I saw her, I did. The babies don’t always cooperate, eh?”

  Simon hovered in the doorway behind her, his gaze darting from Lydia to Mariamme and a deep crease between his brows.

  Lydia gripped Mariamme’s shoulder in reassurance and nodded to the innkeeper. “You can find the midwife?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She inclined her head toward Simon. “And your friend here will help me bring in a hard bed.” She winked at Mariamme. “Don’t you worry, girl. Many a babe has been born in this town, and many more to come. We may not be the big city, but we know how to do it here.”

  Mariamme was still shaking under Lydia’s touch.

  The innkeeper sent her husband into the night to bring the midwife, and within minutes she and Simon had set up a firmer bed for the birthing. Hannah covered it with a linen sheet.

  The midwife arrived as they were helping Mariamme onto the bed. She clutched a birthing stool by one of its legs and in the other hand carried a large leather pouch, which she laid on the bed at Mariamme’s feet. She was old enough to have born her own babies, but not so old that her wits would be dulled. She met Lydia’s gaze with a confident one of her own and gave a little smile and nod. She had a long, narrow nose that hooked a bit and a chin that came to a point under narrow lips.

  She opened the pouch and began removing items. “More light, Hannah. More light. And warm water.”

  Hannah disappeared to fetch the required items.

  Lydia watched her go, then shifted her attention to Simon. “Nothing for you to do now.”

  “If you think I’m going back to the city—”

  She half smiled. “I will find you downstairs when there is news.”

  He looked to Mariamme one last time, his expression grave, then nodded and headed for the stairs.

  “What is your name, girl?” The midwife was still unloading her pouch—a jug of olive oil, several yellowish sea sponges, strips of wool, and bits of herbs Lydia did not recognize.

  Lydia took a step forward. “Mary. Her name is Mary.” She put a hand on Mariamme’s leg. “And I am Lydia. She . . . she is my sister.”

  The midwife looked from Lydia to Mariamme, took in the difference in clothing, in coloring, and grunted. “I understand.”

  What she understood, Lydia could not guess. But she doubted it was the truth, and that was all that mattered.

  The woman gently lifted Mariamme’s feet and placed them, soles down, on the bed, so her knees jutted above her swollen belly. “I am Naomi. Is this your first birthing, Mary?”

  Mariamme nodded, eyes still fearful.

  Hannah reappeared, struggling with a jug in one hand and a burning lamp in the other.

  Lydia crossed the room, relieved her of the jug, and placed it in a basin already sitting on a low table.

  “Now, then.” Naomi poured water over her hands, then a li
ttle olive oil on her fingers. “Let us see where we are.”

  Lydia had been present at the start of Cleopatra’s birthing of Marc Antony’s twins, but when the pains had come hard and fast, the Egyptian queen had banished all but the three midwives in attendance, as if she could not bear for any to see her in a state of weakness.

  There would be no such direction here. Mariamme clutched Lydia’s hand with a fierceness that came of having only one friend in the room.

  Lydia bent to her bedside as the midwife began her examination. “I will stay with you, I promise. I will not leave.”

  Mariamme turned her head toward Lydia, sought out her face, and a tear ran across her temple and soaked into the linen sheet that covered what was little more than a plank of wood.

  Mariamme sucked in a sharp breath at the midwife’s probing, her gaze still fixed on Lydia. “This is not how it should be,” she whispered.

  “No.” Lydia smoothed the hair from her forehead. “No, it is not. But this is what we have, and we are going to focus on the good of it.” She tried to smile. “We have a warm room, an experienced midwife, and you are healthy and strong.”

  “Indeed.” Naomi stood and wiped her hands with a woolen cloth. “All is well, Mary. The baby is in a good position, and your body will take care of the rest. You must only follow my instructions, which will not be difficult.”

  Her voice was soothing and quiet, and Lydia felt herself relax a bit under its spell.

  “When the time is right, we will move from this bed to the birthing stool.” Naomi pointed to the crescent-shaped stool, built with sturdy arms and a backing and a cutaway opening in its base. “Hannah and Lydia will be on either side of you for support, and I will be in front of you. You will watch my face, and I will bring your baby into the world. Do you understand?”

  Mariamme nodded. “How long?”

  Naomi chuckled. “Why, your pains haven’t even begun in earnest, child. You must be patient. It will be a long night.”

  At first the pains were far apart and weak. In the exhaustion of their palace flight and cold journey, Mariamme dozed.

  Lydia had pulled the chair close to the head of the bed, and she rested her own head there, braced on crossed arms. The midwife napped in the softer bed.

  But before two hours had passed, Mariamme was awake and whimpering, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead as the pain bore down on her.

  Lydia winced at Mariamme’s crushing grip on her own hand but kept up a steady flow of reassurances and compliments on her courage and strength.

  The night wore on, the baby did not come, and Mariamme grew paler, listless between the pains when before she had rested, and the midwife’s pleasant chatter turned to choppy instructions. “Prop her upright. Brew these leaves and give her the tea to sip.”

  Lydia dared not ask if there was trouble, not in front of Mariamme. But she could see it in Naomi’s face.

  How many died during this, the most violent event of a woman’s life?

  Lydia mopped Mariamme’s brow with a cool cloth and whispered silent prayers over her. Mariamme had suffered already. The One God Lydia was beginning to know would not be so cruel, would He?

  And the baby—the baby must be safe as well. After the loss of her brother, the baby’s birth was all that kept Mariamme from slipping into despair.

  Please, HaShem, do not take Mariamme from me as well.

  Was it selfish to pray for her own needs at such a time? And yet, Mariamme was more than mistress, more than queen to her. Once again, Lydia had let someone into her heart, and with that, the possibility of pain.

  “Aaaahhh!” Mariamme’s shoulders lifted from the bed, hair now loosed and stuck to her skin. “Something has changed!”

  Naomi was there in a moment, examining.

  Lydia watched the top of her head, waited for news.

  “Make it stop!” Mariamme’s cry ended in a sob.

  Lydia wanted to sob with her. Please, HaShem. “Sshh, it can’t be long now, my—Mary.”

  Naomi straightened, her expression serious but not worried. She nodded to Hannah, then inclined her head to the birthing stool. “Your sister is right, Mary. Your womb is open at last. It is time to bring this baby into the world.”

  Together, Hannah and Lydia helped the weakened woman to the birthing stool, eased her down to it, while the midwife covered herself with an apron, soaked more compresses in warm olive oil, and sat opposite Mariamme. Naomi wrapped thin pieces of cloth around her hands, then waved them toward Hannah and Lydia. “Each of you on a side. You’ll support her arms while she bears down.”

  The rest of the delivery rushed past in a blur of agonized cries and determined groans. The cords of Mariamme’s neck stood out like leather whips. The midwife and her conscripted helpers spoke soothing words of encouragement while the laboring mother, like all women before her, swore she would not survive.

  In the small space between the pushing, Mariamme panted up at Lydia. “There is something I must tell you.”

  Lydia cradled Mariamme’s arm between her own two arms. “Later, later. There will be time—”

  “It is about the pendant. You must know—if I do not live—”

  “Hush now!” Naomi’s voice cut her off. “I allow none of my patients to speak such nonsense. Look at me, Mary.” She waited until Mariamme shifted her breathless attention. “No more talking. You are to focus all your energy on your child now. There is nothing in this world but this. Yourself, and your baby, and my voice. Do you understand?”

  Mariamme licked dry lips and nodded, the motion jerky.

  “Good. Now push.”

  Mariamme screamed and she pushed. And in those final moments, when all was blood and water and salty tears, they were sisters, all of them. No difference in class, no separation in wealth or upbringing or experience could outweigh the sisterhood of childbirth, of bringing life into the world. A secret no man could ever understand but every mother shared.

  And Lydia was part of it, she who had yet born no children but knew in that instant when Mariamme gave a final shriek and the baby’s warm body slipped into Naomi’s cloth-covered hands that she would give all she had for this strange and terrible experience.

  The baby’s skin was a mottled, chalky gray.

  Lydia looked to Naomi in concern. Was this as it should be?

  But Naomi was rubbing warmth and life into the skin, clearing the mouth, drying the dark, matted hair.

  Mariamme’s exhaustion seemed to flee. She leaned forward, sweat running down her neck.

  “You have a son, Mary.”

  Mariamme breathed out a sigh that was at once relief and gratitude and not a little astonishment at what she had accomplished.

  Lydia knelt at her side, wrapped an arm around her. “A son, Mariamme. You have a son!”

  She realized the slip of name at once—never had she called the queen by her first name, and she certainly should not have done it in front of Naomi and Hannah. But if either noticed the slight difference they did not acknowledge it.

  Mariamme leaned her head against Lydia’s shoulder, still breathing hard, then looked into Lydia’s face. “I could not have done it without you.” Her eyes shone with tears. “My sister.”

  Lydia smiled and kissed the new mother’s forehead.

  Naomi cleared her throat. She had the boy wrapped now and laid him in his mother’s arms for the first time.

  And Lydia wept with joy.

  Sometime later, after Hannah and Lydia had helped Mariamme to the bed, with fresh blankets beneath and propped cushions, and Naomi was washing up, she spoke softly to Lydia. “If the man waiting downstairs is the baby’s father, he’ll be anxious for news. It would be safe to bring him up now.”

  Simon. Lydia had nearly forgotten the poor man, waiting in the front room of the inn all night. Leaving Naomi’s implied question unanswered, she hurried down the steps.

  Expecting to find him asleep on the floor before the fire, she was surprised to see him standing in
the shadows near the door, speaking with someone.

  He started forward at once. “We heard the babe’s cry. All is well?”

  Lydia smiled, then swayed on her feet, suddenly dizzy. “All is well. She has a son.”

  Simon caught her arm to steady her, and the man in the shadows stepped into the light.

  “David!”

  His face was grave, not at all what it should be after hearing the good news of the night.

  “What is it? What has happened?”

  “It is Herod.” David glanced at Simon, then back to her. His voice was low, worried. “He is returning.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Lydia’s euphoria over the baby’s birth drained away, and questions and fear poured into its place in her heart.

  What to do now? The three discussed the possibilities in hushed tones.

  Mariamme and the baby could not set out on the weeklong journey to Cyprus anytime soon. She could recover here in Bethlehem, until she was strong enough to travel.

  But there was another possibility.

  David had left on a swift horse as soon as word had been sent ahead of the royal traveling party. Alexandra had sent him, with promises to keep Mariamme’s absence unknown to Herod until David should return with news.

  If they could get Mariamme back into the palace before Herod realized she had fled, would she not be safe? Herod’s return from Syria meant Joseph’s orders to kill Mariamme would not be carried out. The only reason he would have to come against her now was the very flight she had undertaken to save herself.

  It did not take long to decide what they thought best. Lydia left the two men downstairs and ran up to speak with Mariamme. Naomi and Hannah were occupied with cleaning the room and putting away supplies. Mariamme still held the baby in sleepy contentment.

  Lydia hated to disturb such sweet peace. But there was no avoiding it. She sat on the edge of Mariamme’s bed, leaned close to her ear, and whispered the news. Even without seeing Mariamme’s face, she felt the tension jolt through the queen.